


collectible

by sirenseven



Series: props [12]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Blow Jobs, Facials, Incest, Incest Kink, Jason Todd Has Issues, M/M, Restraints, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, Vibrators, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27887638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Bruce molds everyone into a new status quo.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 40
Kudos: 92





	collectible

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all. Been awhile! Apparently a whole November has occurred? Wild. Don't know how that happened, but I am very sorry to keep you all waiting this long. December might be a weird month as well fyi, but I sincerely hope this will be the longest gap between updates. As always, if you are afraid I may have stumbled off a cliff somewhere and perished between fics, you can always check [tumblr](https://writerseven.tumblr.com/) where I occasionally post updates ♥

Tim is edgy when he comes home. Edgy in the evening after patrol. Edgy when Bruce wishes him a good night and leaves him to sleep in his own room. Edgy in the morning over breakfast. Bruce weathers it without betraying any acknowledgment of the change. No one can stay on edge forever. By the time he’s ready for Alfred to drive him to school, Tim has slipped into confusion.

It’s endearing. Bruce gives him a hair ruffle and smile as they head for the front door. A regular day in the classroom, and then Tim will be home again all week. One boy down.

Bruce has pushed him so hard recently. This unplanned break has turned out to be a good idea. Reset Tim’s baseline. Bruce retains reservations over letting his protégés join teams, but he can’t deny that a weekend with the Titans has improved Tim’s mood. He’s focused again, doesn’t zone out. Robin never lost his touch on patrol, or Bruce would have had to reconsider his presence in the field, but formerly-lost confidence has bled back into Tim Drake once more.

When he returns from school, Tim still gives a wary look around, but a casual comment that Dick will be joining them for dinner—and implication Jason won’t—settles him.

At least someone is cheered by Jason’s absence. After the work Bruce put in to ensure Tim would be with them for the week—the silent arrangement of Jack Drake’s conference invitation—he expected Jason to return by now. Perhaps he overestimated the temptation. Or perhaps Jason, ever difficult even when he’s so easy, simply wants to be wooed.

Something to keep in mind.

Bruce touches a hand to the small of Tim’s back as they walk down to dinner, and Tim straightens in preparation. His thoughts are all but spoken: wondering when Bruce will tug him into a side room for a quickie. He’s wrong-footed when they continue to the dining room without pause, brow furrowing even as he clearly tries to hide it.

Bruce is equal parts self-admonishing and enchanted. He’s gone twenty-four hours without touching Tim before. He’s gone days on end. One day without wouldn’t have unsettled him in months past. The idea that he’s so quickly adjusted to constant coupling after a mere week with Jason around is...is a thought best saved for a time Bruce won’t be attending a family meal.

“How are the Titans?” Dick asks over dinner, having arrived mere moments before Alfred served. His leg taps under the table, visible only to Bruce.

“Uh, good,” Tim says around a mouthful of Greek chicken. He swallows hastily to continue, “Kon is trying to convince Bart into a televised race for charity. It’s a good cause, but I think he just misses the spotlight too.”

“Cool, that’s cool,” says Dick. He is a contradiction, seemingly unable to focus on Tim’s words, yet intently hanging onto them, determined to ensure his wellness. Bruce has heard Tim chatter about his friends for hours on end when allowed, but Dick is too keyed-up. “And school? Done with detention?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, clearly caught off by the sudden topic change but following gamely. “You know, so long as I don’t do something dumb again.”

Bruce eats in silence at the head of the table. Listening to Dick and Tim converse about their personal lives has always been a more reliable method of learning than trying to ask either of them himself. Bruce is aware he rarely inspires casual conversation.

“Classes good?” asks Dick. A bite of chicken has been on his fork for minutes now, almost making it to his mouth multiple times before Dick stops himself with a new comment. The rest cools on his plate, nearly untouched. Bruce is reminded of Dick as an energetic child, so active he would abandon dinner halfway through to cartwheel around the manor, only remembering his food much later when he got hungry again.

“They’re fine,” Tim says a little slower, eyebrows furrowing. He looks Dick over in concern.

Caring and clever boys, the both of them. Bruce straightens, prepared to interrupt when the need arises.

“Your dad doesn’t mind you coming over for dinner?” Dick asks. His fork is entirely forgotten now, held aside as he leans on the table towards Tim.

Tim takes another bite. “On a trip.”

Dick’s head whips over.

“Tim is staying with us for the week,” Bruce answers, “while his father is away.”

Under the table, Dick’s leg stops tapping. Alfred, fortunately, appears to refill glasses at just the right time. In the moment Tim is looking up to thank him, Bruce and Dick meet eyes.

Dick visibly swallows. He understands the terms of the deal he proposed. He needn’t be here all the time to throw himself in front of Tim, but with Tim around more often, Bruce expects him to follow suit. Dick’s head inclines in a hint of a nod, before Tim pulls him back into conversation.

Two down.

–

The timing is tricky to coordinate, betraying the learning pains in their new arrangement. Tim wants to spend time with Dick before heading out, which Bruce allows though certainly not unsupervised. Dick wants to return to his own city for patrol. Fortunately Dick, perhaps more than anyone, knows Bruce well enough to interpret his look when they part ways. Nightwing’s patrol route can and should remain untouched, but Dick he expects back.

And so at the end of the night, rather than the beginning, Bruce is finally able to pin Dick against the antenna tower of a skyscraper to fellate him.

Surprise widens Dick’s eyes when Bruce lowers himself down. Bruce can see the protests caught behind his teeth before he locks his jaw, staying silent. Even as Bruce has a hand and then a mouth around him, not a sound escapes. Bruce takes it as a challenge, gauging out Dick’s reactions to each technique around his cock. A faster pace? Stronger suction? Slow and firm strokes? More movement with his tongue—until at last he earns a small gasp. It’s barely audible over the wind. It’s all Bruce can hear.

He held himself back yesterday, wary to push Dick beyond what he could take on their first time. He’s obsessed over this ever since. Finally he has it, his hard-earned prize: watching Dick slowly unravel.

Dick’s lips part, red with how much he’s bitten them. His cheeks are pink from more than just the sharp wind, his chest shuddering, his suit pushed up to show the clench of muscles in his abdomen. His hands grip white-knuckled on the bars of the tower. Bruce removed his domino mask earlier, but still can’t see his eyes. They squeeze closed, head turned aside; Dick has refused to look down since he got hard under the ministrations.

Bruce draws slowly back, sucking along each retreating inch of his boy’s length until he can lick the head and finally free his mouth. A tantalizing drop of precome alights on his tongue, cock twitching in his hand—and above, Dick still hides from his own enjoyment.

“Look at me,” Bruce says softly.

With clear reluctance, Dick peels his eyes open. They aren’t wet, but they are wide. Dick hasn’t lost his trembling uncertainty from the day before, the hints of disbelief, fear, guilt. Bruce finds himself hoping he never does. There’s something intoxicating to it. The childlike desperation, as if Dick is waiting for an adult to tell him what to do. It’s easy to imagine him younger. Still innocent. Like no one else has ever touched him.

A spark of tenacity clings on beneath it all, unquenched. Dick keeps his eyes locked on Bruce’s.

“Just like that,” Bruce murmurs.

Dick shudders. Bruce pretends it’s from arousal and swallows his boy back down, determined to evoke further sounds. His own body is warm despite the chilly air, buzzing with desire and victory.

This deal, this _opportunity_ —it’s more than Bruce ever expected. He didn’t dare think he would be able to have Dick, not now. In hindsight, he knew he’d lost that chance the moment he stripped away Robin and kicked the boy out. Bruce has regretted the preceding years many times. The chance never taken.

When Dick was young and small and winsome, Bruce was too deep in guilt and denial over his appetites. Always held back from what he wanted. Never allowed himself to pursue it. Oh, he slipped. He slipped many times, in small ways. On occasion he slipped more significantly, barely avoiding notice. There was one summer night Bruce peeked into Dick’s room to check on him—a ritual he had sworn to himself many times was nothing but parental—and found that in the heat Dick had kicked off both his covers and his sleep pants. Bruce sat for an hour in the chair beside his bed, just watching the moonlight play on his skin.

But he never pushed all the way. Never took what he craved. Not until Jason, already lascivious and uninhibited, offered himself on a silver platter and pushed Bruce over the edge.

He had always thought crossing that line would fill him with self-loathing. Instead, once that bell was rung, Bruce only regretted not ringing it sooner. He rued the knowledge that the ship had long since set sail on being Dick’s first and only, certain he would never again be able to see his eldest son unguarded and bare.

And then, like a reward for all his waiting...

Dick’s breath catches, eyes squinting before he forces himself to stay focused on Bruce’s face. Bruce shows his approval by repeating the motion that sparked his pleasure: a tongue-swirling suck to the head of his cock, lips tight just beyond it.

Dick gasps again. _There_ it is. He has to learn another body, but Bruce has never struggled at that. Dick’s sensitive spots reveal themselves to him easily.

Bruce almost pulls back to instruct him to narrate how it feels before deciding that would be too much at once. One new thing at a time. Dick is already struggling, forced to confront the evidence of his own enjoyment despite his protests. Bruce has pushed him quickly. When it was Tim, Bruce chastely sat the boy on his lap a dozen times before he dared so much as an “accidental” grope. With Dick, he can count on a decade’s ground work and Dick’s instigation to give him a head start.

Bruce redoubles his efforts, keeping his boy breathing unevenly through parted lips. After a minute, Dick’s hips begin to jerk in stifled thrusts. His head falls back against the tower. Bruce declines to punish him for looking away and risk their fragile balance. It’s a shame he can’t have Jason here to egg him on.

When Dick comes, the sound he makes is muted nearly to nonexistence, but finally voiced. Bruce sucks him through it, dragging the orgasm out. He fails to evoke another moan, but revels for the sight nonetheless. The shaking, the red face, the hands flexing open from their grip...

Dick shudders as he comes down, Bruce still sucking, but does a remarkable job of staying still instead of squirming away. Bruce allows him reprieve and gently withdraws.

Dick’s mouth opens to pant silently. He tenses his neck as Bruce rises to his feet. In another situation, Dick would offer a wry comment here, mouth quirked in amusement, the cynical adult variation on his childhood quips. Tonight, he stays quiet and unsteady. The illusion of innocence holds.

Bruce kisses him without preamble. Dick grimaces against his mouth at the taste, but doesn’t flinch back. His lips mold easily beneath Bruce’s direction.

Bruce keeps a hand cradled around his neck when he breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together. He won’t pretend his motivations aren’t selfish, that his body isn’t pulsing with arousal. But, in a way, the sex benefits all of them. He has such proud, stubborn boys, but they all share a postcoital vulnerability that allows him to comfort them in ways he never can otherwise. Despite Dick’s shaking, despite his reluctance through the whole endeavor, after a minute of stillness in the gentle contact, his shoulders lower. This is good for him. He’ll see.

Bruce places a kiss to his forehead. “That was good. Well done.” He squeezes Dick’s nape and then steps back.

For a moment, Dick looks like he might protest that he didn’t do anything. Then he snaps his mouth shut, gives a sharp nod, and hunches over to pull his uniform back into place.

Bruce pulls his cowl up and turns his attention out. Gotham glitters around them, never dark no matter the hour. It is getting late, though. Tim will be expecting Batman and Robin to retire soon. He’s been working his own case, just as Dick wanted. Bruce assumes Dick will start to express his appreciation of that concession as soon as he gets his wits about him.

“Do you, um...” Bruce looks over. Dick has taken a tentative step forward, gesturing to his groin. “Should I...?”

“No,” says Bruce. “That’s alright. You did perfectly.”

In truth, he is aching beneath his cup, cock desperately wishing he would remove more than the cowl. Dick deserves a reprieve, though. The idea of pushing him to his knees to reciprocate certainly has its merits, but Bruce is far too tempted to fuck him, and he already promised himself: one new thing at a time.

Maybe in previous weeks Dick would have questioned further. Tonight, he’s finally broken the habit of interrogating every one of Bruce’s actions. He nods, relief obvious.

He looks ready to bolt any moment, but Bruce summarily judges him unprepared to ride his motorcycle. He appoints himself in charge of providing the necessary comfort. Just until Dick stops shaking. Then he can return to Blüdhaven.

–

After Dick leaves, a quick check-in with Tim has him bringing the Redbird around, ready to finish up for the night. Bruce already sent home the Batmobile, finding it too conspicuous for his current case. Calling it back is unnecessary when they can return to Bristol together.

Robin is perched on the hood when Bruce swings down to him. He offers a tentative smile that gives way to good-natured grumbling when Bruce holds his hand out for the keys.

“I see how it is,” Tim says, hopping off on the passenger side. “Trying to take your gift back already.”

Bruce smiles, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Fortunately for you, the Batcave garage doesn’t give refunds. You’ll be back behind the wheel soon enough.”

In other words, Bruce doubts he will be in the Redbird very often. Whenever the occasion _does_ arise, he will always take over driving. Letting Alfred chauffeur him during the day is one thing, but Bruce prefers to have control at night. He certainly has more experience than Tim. Tonight, he’s also thankful for the distraction from his uncomfortably tight suit as they drive away from his rendezvous with Dick.

Downtown still has activity, but traffic between Gotham and Blüdhaven is very light at this hour. By the time Tim and Bruce reach Bristol, Dick should have made the longer drive to Blüdhaven, speeding down the highway. The smaller city doesn’t share Gotham’s insomnia, only showing a blip of activity when the bars close. By the time they’re purring up the winding roads of Crest Hill, Dick will be settled in his apartment, miles and miles away.

Bruce turns onto a side road and pulls over.

Tall trees and moonlit shadows fill an otherwise empty space. The main drag is unlikely to have traffic, with so few people driving Crest Hill, let alone at such a late hour. On this offshoot, the chance of finding another living soul is infinitesimal.

In the light from the dash, he can see Tim’s brow furrow. “Wha—?”

Bruce pulls him over before he can finish the word. Tim lurches awkwardly across the center console, topples into Bruce’s lap, and sits stiff where he’s landed—but still opens for a kiss like no time has passed at all when Bruce twists his head.

This unplanned break was a good idea. And, now that Tim has reset himself, a completed one.

He turns the boy to the wheel, pulling his legs wide to either side of Bruce’s thighs and ensuring the cape doesn’t get tangled. Bruce tilts Tim’s head by the hair, sucking along the side of his soft throat and drinking in the familiar smell and feeling. The tension in Tim’s neck is obvious this close.

Bruce slides up to his ear, lips dragging along the skin. “Tim,” he murmurs, part question, part admonishment.

Tim bunches his shoulders up. His head twists around, either to look at Bruce or to dislodge his mouth; it’s unclear. Bruce frowns, mirrored by the crease in Tim’s brow.

“So is Jason hiding in the backseat?” Tim asks.

Bruce shushes him, turning him to face forward again and sliding hands along his thin chest. “Don’t be jealous.” He encircles the covered waist, feels down strong thighs. Still tense. Bruce sighs. “It’s just us.”

“Oh.” Finally the muscles relax.

“Happy?” Bruce asks, gratified by the wince he gets in response.

Tim declines to admit it one way or the other, but the way he leans back to nestle against Bruce speaks to a _yes_. Relief, at least, and a silent apology for the false assumption.

Even with layers in the way, just having him in Bruce’s lap reignites the tightness of his suit. He pushes Tim forward in what little space is left before the wheel. Bruce grips a handful of his ass beneath the green leggings. “Get this off.”

Tim awkwardly wriggles to obey. He has outer layers to untangle, shoving aside what can be reached around and taking off what can’t.

Bruce need only remove his gloves and codpiece. He breathes a sigh of relief when his cock is finally free, quickly swelling to hardness. After Dick teased him up on the roof, he’s more than ready.

The same cannot be said of his partner. With days to heal and tighten, stretching will surely be needed. Bruce retrieves his lubricant while Tim finishes stripping. The first drizzle goes on his palm, where he waits for it to warm before taking himself in hand for a few leisurely strokes while watching Tim wiggle and twist and arch out from the wheel to get his pants down.

He’s had to lose the robin-red leotard. An unfortunate sacrifice. He still has the emerald green at least, shirt untouched. Bruce takes a handful of the cape, running it through his fingers. It’s heavier than it used to be. Longer, too. Coated in black on the outside, nostalgic yellow only in the lining. Bruce flips the cape over Robin’s shoulder, so that yellow is shining bright.

Robin’s pelvis is bare, red and green uniform pushed to his calves. Bruce wastes no time. He pulls the skinny hips back onto his lap and squeezes out more lubricant. Tim catches his breath on the first finger, for the temperature or sudden stretch Bruce can’t say. He makes quick work of it, moving up to two fingers and then three as soon as he’s certain the boy won’t break. Robin jolts in his lap with the force of his movements.

Bruce pulls his fingers out the second he can—the second his impatience overtakes him. If he has, perhaps, been a bit hasty, he knows his boy can handle it. Bruce is more than ready to be inside him. He pulls Tim down, sinks into the desperate heat like coming home.

Tim lets out a hitched sound. Bruce holds him down to the hilt, wrapping his arms around to keep Tim pressed to his chest as he adjusts. He can completely cloak his skinny little Robin. If only all the boys would stay this small.

“That’s it,” he says, cheek to cheek, curled over Robin’s shoulder. Tim twitches, but Bruce can feel him fighting to stay still. “Good boy. I can always count on you.”

He squeezes the boy. Tim grabs onto his arms tightly.

“I can trust you,” Bruce presses. His good soldier, keeping quiet, never breathing a word of this even to his brother. “You can be trusted. You would never betray me.”

There’s no lilt to his voice, but his clever boy reads it as a question nonetheless. Tim nods, breath sharp. His fingers dig into the Kevlar-blend on Bruce’s arms. “Ye—Yes. You can trust me.”

Bruce kisses his temple hard.

He unlinks his arms, settling hands on hips instead. Bruce snaps his hips up, tugs back down with his hands, sets a sharp rhythm. Robin catches onto the pace quickly, riding his cock in perfect counterpoint. The yellow cape draped over his front bounces with every thrust. Bruce watches it wave, up to the bobbing head of dark hair, down to the green gloves holding tight on bare knees. The tight, tight hole stretched wide around his cock.

He releases a hip to grab Robin’s wrist instead, nudging it forward. “Touch yourself.”

Robin doesn’t even remove his glove, unhesitating in obedience. Bruce watches the bright green wrap around his little pink cock. His strokes are unsteady, distracted by the pounding of his hole, until Bruce steps in. He takes Robin’s wrist again, holds it in place, lets his cock jerk into it instead of the other way around. Bruce fucks into him, jolts his entire body, and without touching it fucks Robin’s dick into his own hand.

“Good,” Bruce breathes. “Good boy, Robin. Good Robin. Such a good Robin.”

The pleasure Bruce has bottled up since yesterday—holding back from touching his Robin through the day, watching them stretch before patrol, fellating him off on the roof, driving him home now—rises quickly. Bruce slams up and yanks him down, chasing the peak.

“Come for me,” he says, wanting to feel that uncontrolled flex and release of muscles, wanting to see his Robin fall apart for him.

The high cry of release as he does just that sends Bruce over the edge as well, releasing deep in his boy.

He holds Robin tight to his chest again for a long moment, catching his breath. Come leaks around his softening penis. Robin’s twitching hole sparks occasional jolts of sensation.

Tim’s head drops against his shoulder, panting at the ceiling in exertion. When Bruce makes to separate, Tim grabs onto his arm. Just...holding him. Bruce will allow it. Climax has released the buzzing tension the night lit in him and dulled any sense of urgency. With Tim on him and around him and in his arms, it’s hard to feel threatened by any other claims.

“Did you enjoy your weekend?” Bruce whispers.

Tim’s breathing levels out. Bruce turns their hands to grab his wrist instead, feeling the pulse steady over a slow sixty seconds. Tim finally nods. “Yeah. It was nice.”

After a beat he straightens. Bruce glances down the length of his back and, on impulse, fishes something out of his belt. He squeezes Tim’s shoulder in approval, then nudges him forward. As Tim lifts off, Bruce snaps a picture with the phone: his leaking, reddened hole; green shirt; black and yellow cape starting to slip down his back again; and shadowed in the corners, Bruce’s covered thighs.

“Let’s clean you up,” Bruce murmurs and tucks the phone away again.

-

Tim takes longer than him in the showers, energy draining fast. Bruce steps out first and wraps a towel around his waist, before catching another picture of Tim’s back.

He’s caught mid-motion, scooping the come out of his own ass. Water falls around him, slicking off his hair. His back has the usual scars, an ugly bruise from patrol along his side, plus the fading yellow and brown around his hips and neck. A faint bite mark from Friday’s flight lingers on his shoulder blade, though the shape of Jason’s teeth is barely distinguishable now.

Bruce steps out of the doorway, moving to his clothes as he examines the pictures. This is neither his personal phone for Bruce Wayne nor his work phone for Wayne Enterprises, but one of the incredibly secure devices he uses when Batman has need. With the combination of Oracle’s encryption and Bruce’s personal locks and security, he has no fear of keeping such elicit material in storage.

Nor of any messages he sends being intercepted.

He attaches both pictures to a text, considering the text box. But words have always been where Bruce falters. In the end, he sends the pictures to the number he memorized from Jason’s phone last weekend without caption.

Jason will fill in his own context, pleased or bitter. If arousal doesn’t bring him back, the fear of missing out will.

-

Bruce doesn’t expect a response—Jason surely prefers to show up without warning—but it is still a disappointment to wake up to no notification. Unless Jason abandoned his phone, tracking it puts him in the same run-down apartment building near Crime Alley he was in yesterday, and there is no chatter from Bruce’s sources of anyone targeting the Red Hood and drawing his attention

It’s been a month since Bruce went into the office, so he takes one of his rare days at WE, checking on the things he can’t assess from home, having serious discussions with Lucius over company matters, and reinforcing his airheaded facade to everyone else. Dick won’t be back until tomorrow’s dinner, so Bruce spends the evening reviewing his investigation on the Dibny case, before the JLA really _does_ try to call him away like he claimed to Tim. Patrol is more fruitful, solving a East End triple homicide that has stumped police, while Tim investigates a series of burglaries near Bristol.

An hour or two after retiring to bed, Bruce wakes up to the light in his room flicking on, and Jason bee-lining towards his closet.

He watches in amusement as Jason digs out the so-called toy box, cracks the lock in a few seconds, and starts rifling through without so much as a glance in Bruce’s direction. The disregarded lock is largely symbolic anyway; every member of the family could pick it without issue. But the only people with reason to investigate his closet are either sexual partners or Alfred, and Alfred won’t invade his privacy. Bruce doesn’t move, perfectly content to observe from the comfort of his bed until Jason has geared up to whatever he’s planning.

“Got a lot more stuff here than you used to,” Jason says after a few minutes of rummaging, still without looking at Bruce.

Bruce doesn’t answer, though Jason surely knows he’s awoken.

After another minute, Jason abandons the chest, swings onto the bed, and straddles Bruce over the duvet. He’s still wearing his shoes, though not the warm coat Bruce would expect in this weather. His clothing is casual this time, none of the Red Hood’s armor in sight. Bruce settles his hands on the outside of Jason’s thighs, muscle obvious even through his jeans.

“So where’s the kid?” Jason asks. He shows no reaction to the touch, but his eagerness to press on betrays his uncertainty. “Thought he was supposed to be here.”

Bruce wonders if he brought a bag, perhaps sitting with his coat, or if he intends to steal clothing again. Both ideas have merits, but the delight of seeing Jason wear his clothes is outstripped by the promise intimated by a bag. Bruce hopes he brought a bag.

“He’s in his room,” Bruce says.

Jason smiles.

–

Tim snaps awake as soon as Bruce leans on his bed. His vigilance is improving. A useful skill for the long career ahead of him at Batman’s side. To think, Tim once spoke of Robin as a temporary position, a fill-in gig—before Bruce set him straight.

Bruce leans bodily over him, holding his cheek, at the same moment Tim awakes. Tim takes only a second to get his bearings, before relaxing into the touch. If the vigilance is intellectually pleasing, the obedience is primally so. Even the creak at the end of the bed marking a third presence—drawing Tim’s eyes down, though he won’t be able to see beyond Bruce’s bulk—only makes him tense slightly. He looks back to Bruce, holding steady eye contact as Jason shuffles around.

It doesn’t break even when Jason goes for his pajamas. Tim mutely lifts his hips to help Jason drag the flannel pants down, expression unreadable. Bruce smooths his hair approvingly. Tim’s fingers lightly wrap around the hand on his cheek.

“Are you gonna help?” Jason asks, earning the slightest flinch from Tim, and Bruce finally breaks eye contact.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

As he shifts away, he just catches the moment of devastation crumbling Tim’s face.

Bruce ends up sitting towards the foot of the bed, leaning on one hand, a remote casually held in the other. Tim spreads out before him, holding the headboard as instructed. Jason put a blindfold on him first thing. He may not be consciously aware of his own jealousy, but Bruce has no doubt the obstructed eye contact is intentional. With neither his sight nor the ability to actively participate, Tim’s presence is dulled to an objectified centerpiece.

Tim still wears his sleep shirt, a too-large tee for the Clash that provides the most tantalizing contrast to his bare lower half. Buzzing echoes out between his thighs.

Jason shifts against Bruce, humming. Bruce had pulled him over on impulse, pleased when he acquiesced with merely an eye roll. Jason leans against him now, skin to skin. His legs are kicked off to the side instead of allowing Bruce to bracket them, but he leans back on Bruce’s chest. Completely at ease, as if they never lost this closeness.

Bruce ticks up the remote’s controls, listening to the vibration rise and watching Tim’s legs twitch and kick out in response. His pretty dick already stands up from his pelvis, slowly beading precome. If he stains the shirt, he has plenty of spares in the manor, and Bruce has excuses on hand in the unlikely event Alfred questions the laundry: insatiable, messy teenagers. Alfred never seems to ask, though, and for the moment, Tim’s shirt remains unsoiled. He’s allowed to come at any time—Jason’s instruction, verified, as always, by Bruce. Tim deserves it.

With deft modulation of the vibrator, it’s no struggle to see him through. Tim gasps through his climax, toes curling into the bedspread.

Lowering the intensity, Bruce lets him drag out the aftershocks. Jason stretches out a leg, jostling Tim’s hip in approval, almost friendly.

Tim hardly responds, releasing a feeble whimper but not even bothering to turn his head away. His hands still squeeze tight on the headboard, face red, mouth hanging open to pant. More dramatic than his usual reaction to a first orgasm—or maybe he simply used to be more embarrassed about it. Even a week ago, he would be ducking in shame. The determination to hide has been wrung out of him.

Pragmatically, his lack of fight makes things easier. At the same time it’s...less compelling. These nights are not an act of pragmatism. This is an act of id, with pragmatism the structural support Bruce forces himself to hang it on. Without the id, there’s little point.

Bruce reaches forward to hold the remote in front of Jason. He leans down to his ear, brushing their heads together, to whisper beneath Tim’s notice, “I know you want to.”

Jason breathes deep, taking the remote. The buzzing shifts patterns as he cycles through.

Bruce finds his mind drifting back to Dick. Tim is no less young or attractive than last week as his toes curl under the continued stimulation, cock slowly starting to regain its interest, but the newer conquest is...well. _Newer_. Still fresh enough to savor.

His attention snaps back at a grunt from Tim. Jason draws his foot back from the kick that provoked it, looking sidelong at Bruce but pretending not to as soon as he takes notice. The sound abruptly swells, making Tim jerk. The headboard creaks with how hard he grips it, fighting to stay obedient in the midst of overstimulation.

Jason leans more weight on Bruce so he can lift a foot, nudging it against Tim’s cock, then down to tease his balls. “C’mon, kid. Gonna be a good Robin and come for Daddy?”

He clearly doesn’t intend to wait for an answer. Jason’s style is brash, unhesitating, pushing Tim on whether he likes it or not. Bruce loosely wraps his arms around Jason’s shoulders, letting a hand lazily map the planes of his chest. He can feel the rise and fall of each breath, and the stiff determination with which Jason keeps himself facing forward.

“We know you can do it,” Jason continues. “You’ve taken much more than this, right? Little slut, getting off on all of it.” His eyes dart quickly to Bruce and away after each sentence, a performer gauging his audience. “Pretty little whore, all laid out for us.”

Tim comes again, arching off the mattress with a loud moan. Jason lifts the remote into Bruce’s view, immediately tapping up and up and up to the highest setting.

“How’s that, kid?” he asks, as Tim twists and writhes before them.

Tim sobs. “St—”

Bruce grips Jason’s shoulders, watching intently. Tim falters through broken moans and whimpers, but that—that was almost a word. Almost a _protest_. With the black fabric over his eyes, Bruce has only his body, his actions, the stretch of his mouth to judge.

“Stop,” Tim whispers.

Neither man pays any attention. Bruce finds himself breathing deeply, laser-focused on Tim’s white-knuckled grip on the headboard. There’s nothing to restrain him. Nothing to keep him laid out or blindfolded or at the mercy of a relentless vibrator—except his submission to Bruce. His eyes surely must be wet beneath the blindfold, his body overwhelmed in sensation, but his hands—

Tim is forced through his third orgasm, coming dry with nothing left to give. His hands don’t leave their position.

Bruce pants like he’s found his own release. Jason, architect of the moment, holds still under his hands until Bruce rubs up and down his biceps. In close contact, he can feel just how much the shoulders relax under his approval.

Jason glances back with a note of question, and Bruce inclines his head. Jason lowers the vibrations, letting Tim quietly cry on the lowest setting. The boy’s twitches, the feeble shuddering of his chest, hold Bruce’s gaze. His hand drifts down to lazily stroke Jason.

The older boy shifts against him, but makes no move away from Bruce’s hand, nor the hardness he can surely feel digging into his back.

“You know, if he’s busy with this, we’re gonna need to get off without his ass,” Jason murmurs.

Bruce hums, considering and dismissing a dozen ideas that Jason is still stubborn enough to balk at. This position is viscerally reminiscent of many nights years back when Jason would be truly _in_ his lap, but he clearly fears the idea now. Anything that makes him pull away from Bruce is a failure.

“Would you like his mouth?” Bruce asks instead.

He gives no indication of monitoring Jason’s answer, even as he clocks Jason’s brief glance down to his stroking hand, then a firmer lean against his chest. Jason shrugs in his usual facsimile of carelessness. “Eh, this is fine.”

Safely hidden behind him, Bruce smiles and refocuses his strokes. _Good boy_ , he mouths, where Jason can’t see it.

Three down.

-

The entire family comes together for dinner. Bruce watches a silent negotiation of seats with some amusement. Dick ends up to his right, Jason to his left. Tim sits on the other side of his preferred brother, further away than usual. Nothing to be done about it. Bruce can’t have all of them within arm’s reach at the table, unless he’s going to pull Tim into his lap. Not that he’s _opposed_ to the idea...

But the situation is delicate. Too many plates in the air. Whatever Bruce may _want_ , he needs more stability before he can push for it. His fantasies remain under the table. (A quite fitting metaphor at the moment, though Bruce refuses to smile and give the game away.)

Usually, this would be the part where Dick entreats Alfred to break his usual code and sit with them, but no such plea comes. Bruce watches him sit stiffly as Alfred sets down his plate, murmuring a thanks without making eye contact.

“Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred says, setting down the final plate, Tim’s, with a flourish. Tim has no reaction, otherwise occupied as he is. “What a treat to have you all together again.”

Dick doesn’t answer, jaw clenched and eyes pointed at his plate. Someday, he will come to appreciate them all being together again as well. It just takes time.

Alfred shows no hint of surprise at the stony silence. Not for the first time, Bruce wonders how much he knows. His thoughts have varied over the years. Sometimes, he is convinced of Alfred’s ignorance. Bruce has been careful. Clever. Subtle. Other times, he’s certain the older man knows and has silently agreed to allow it behind closed doors and barred caves, in exchange for plausible deniability.

It’s a moot point. Alfred returns to the kitchen now, and Bruce never plans to speak of it. He will hold up his end of the bargain, whether or not Alfred knows they’ve made it.

“So, _Dick_ ,” Jason says, digging into his food without hesitation. “What brings you around again?”

Dick shrugs, shedding his stiffness like a loose coat. Ever the talented performer. “Just family dinner.”

“Been a lot of those lately.” Jason takes a large bite, completely ignoring Bruce’s rules against speaking with a full mouth. “Sure this isn’t cutting into your job?”

“No. I mean, we eat so late here...” Dick picks at his meal with far less fervor, trailing off.

The conversational baton seems to shuffle between his boys every day. Tim clams up whenever Jason is in the room, even without his _current_ distraction. Dick has been quiet since their deal was made, except when trying to grill Tim on Monday. He hasn’t even called Tim from Blüdhaven to speak privately. Bruce is glad for the tap on Tim’s phone now, after the boy spent the entire day in a sitting room instead of his own (fully surveilled) bedroom. Not that Bruce is worried about them conversing. Even if Dick manages to push aside the shame of his participation to admit what he’s done, Bruce can always count on Tim.

Tonight, Jason has the baton. As ever, he tries to goad whichever brother he perceives as the bigger threat.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he drawls. “I’d hate for any kids to miss out on their all-important gymnastic lessons.”

Dick frowns at his food, pushing it around more than eating. Tim did the same thing too, when he’d first started going out as Robin. Claimed nausea. It will pass. After a moment, Dick looks up. “What about you? What brings you to the manor?”

(He had brought a bag. A little one, but a promise all the same. Bruce had to tamp down his glee.)

“Family dinner,” Jason says, looking around in a way that dares anyone to argue his inclusion. “Well, _mostly_ -family dinner.” He eyes Tim.

“Tim qualifies as family,” Bruce says.

Tim doesn’t show his usual delight at the sentiment, as silent and distracted as he’s been since coming downstairs, but Jason scowls. “Why, because he wears a cape?”

“Because he’s part of this family,” Bruce says, leaving no room for argument. Best to shut it down now. Knowing Jason, there’s a good chance the next question will be, _because he takes it up the ass?_ and then god knows where this dinner will go.

Jason’s glower deepens, but he doesn’t argue. He returns to bothering Dick about his “idle rich boy’s version of a job” and that seems to be the end of it.

A minute later, a sharp buzz sounds.

Dick pulls out his phone to check the screen—and completely misses Tim startling so hard he nearly knocks over his glass. Finding no notification, he tucks it away again. For appearances’ sake, Bruce pretends to do the same. He keeps a stoic face.

Jason has no such qualms, blatantly smirking. He doesn’t bother pulling out his phone, though one hand is already in a pocket. “Not me. Must be you, Timmy.”

Tim stares at him with wide eyes.

“Your phone,” Bruce prompts.

“Oh.” Tim stutters into motion, digging through his pocket. “Oh, uh, yeah.” He gives the barest impression of a glance at the screen, carefully tipped away from Dick, before shoving it back down. “It’s...not important.”

No sooner has he picked up his fork than the same short buzz sounds. Tim drops it with a clatter, jerking back in his chair.

“Sounds like they _really_ want to get ahold of you,” Jason says.

Tim yanks out his phone, this time staring far too intently at the surely blank screen.

Dick looks between him and Jason with narrowed eyes. “Who is it?”

“It’s, uh, just Ives,” Tim says, flattening the phone to his chest. “He...found a new game. That he really likes. That he’s telling me about.”

“That’s...nice,” Dick says, uncertain.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to each person at the table, before falling silent. Bruce continues eating. None of the rest of them try to continue the conversation. Tim doesn’t bother trying to pick up his utensils again. Sure enough, a moment later the buzzing resumes.

It stays on longer this time. And repeats. And repeats.

“Not gonna get that?” Jason asks, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. The other hand, of course, remains in his pocket.

“No,” Tim grunts.

He holds remarkably still through it, fists balled in his lap. Bruce can only imagine it’s difficult, resisting every desire to squirm and shake and beg on the vibrator splitting him open. It’s far from the largest toy Bruce owns, but it is the largest with a remote, a decent cock’s size.

Jason had pulled the pair of them aside just before dinner. Bruce had no qualm to take with his suggestion, fitting the toy into Tim while Jason held him upright. It’s perfectly designed for stimulation, curved to hit the prostate with a branch over the perineum. Walking to the dining room with that, sitting still without revealing it, and now holding strong against forced bolts of pleasure... Bruce has mastered himself too well to let his body react, but his mind races.

Finally, at the very limit of a credible length for a phone’s ring, the buzzing stops.

“Must be some game,” says Jason.

Dick’s brow has furrowed and furrowed, now showing outright concern over Tim’s stiffness. Jason makes Bruce feel like a reckless teen again, but his delight tempers in the face of outright suspicion. At the very least, Jason is revealing his antagonistic relationship with Tim plain as day. Bruce should stop him from exposing any more.

Bruce speaks up before Dick can pry. “How is the situation in Blüdhaven progressing? I hear the remaining mobs have settled into a new arrangement.”

It lures Dick into an answer at least. His worry isn’t lost, but all of them are too trained to ignore a request for cape-related information.

“Think he’ll call again?” Jason is asking on the other side of the table, smiling blithely at Tim.

“No,” Tim snaps, too loud, cutting right through Dick’s explanation of the rising Irish mob presence. Tim falters when the room goes silent again. “I’m...being rude, I mean. I’ll turn my phone off.”

Jason straightens, clearly not having foreseen this snag. Bruce catches his eye as Tim follows through on the promise, and subtly shakes his head. Jason scowls, but after a minute both his hands emerge above the table.

He sulks most of the rest of the meal.

Bruce lays his cutlery neatly across the plate when he’s finished eating. Alfred, with his uncanny prescience over meals, will appear at any minute to take the dishes. Jason is just pulling together his final bites. Dick and Tim have only dented their food, but Bruce doubts either will come close to finishing. He’ll have to ensure they get another snack before patrol, lest the calorie drop hurt their performance.

“Dick,” Bruce says. “I’d like to discuss something with you downstairs after this.”

Dick’s eyes shoot up, then away. He’s clearly still aware of their audience by his casual, “Yeah, sure.”

He ducks down again. Jason scowls across the table at him, ever insecure over threats to attention, until Bruce catches his eye. The tiniest lift of his eyebrows, momentary flick of eyes to Tim for emphasis, and he has Jason sitting up straight again.

Tim fidgets, leaning towards Dick. “You haven’t even finished your food,” he tries. It’s transparent to anyone paying attention; fortunately, Dick is thousand-yard staring through the table.

“Not to your liking?” Bruce asks.

Dick blinks, catching the nudge to be less conspicuous, and then shrugs again. “Guess I’m just not that hungry.”

Jason is glaring daggers at Tim, enough to keep him silent. The younger pair stays convinced Bruce is merely creating a distraction for their older brother. Dick is steeling himself for the oncoming ordeal. Each boy occupied by his own secrets, and not one ever thinks to question Bruce.

He has all of them together, yet all of them isolated. Bruce has never believed in the mutual exclusivity of having cake and eating it.

-

The first floor of Wayne Manor is designed to impress guests, from the grandest ballroom down to each bathroom. This one is painted in azure blue, with gold hardware and black and white granite countertops. The highlight is the floor-to-ceiling mirror, designed for guests to fix up their appearances before returning to a party.

Bruce holds Dick against his chest to face it now. The boy is fully stripped. If he is unable to take his time, Jason and Tim preparing for him already, he’s at least going to see Dick in his entirety. See him, and be allowed to _look_ , from tousled hair all the way down to curled toes. Dick’s bare legs shake. His hands cling onto the forearm Bruce has barred across his chest for support.

At the reflection’s center is his cock, playing peek-a-boo in Bruce’s fist. The mirror catches it on every down stroke, and the way it beads precome when Bruce lavishes attention on it.

He grabs Dick’s chin when it starts to turn away. Bruce’s fingers push dents into the skin, turning it right back towards their reflection. Bruce meets his eyes in the mirror. He can’t remember the last time he saw Dick so red.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, equal parts smug and stymied when Dick drops his eyes in shame. “How does it feel?”

Dick grimaces.

After a few seconds where it becomes clear Dick doesn’t intend to answer, Bruce stop his strokes. He squeezes down on Dick’s cock tight enough to provoke hiss of discomfort, before returning to his previous rhythm just as abruptly.

“Bruce,” Dick says, expression pinched very much like when Bruce used to make him eat his spinach. His face is still forced forward by Bruce’s grip, but his eyes point up.

“Dick,” Bruce responds in the same tone.

He presses his face against Dick’s cheek, not defined enough to be a kiss. Where Dick has been turned into a centerfold, Bruce is a shadow. His body, still clothed in greys and blacks, is largely obscured from the mirror. Now one of his eyes is hidden away in the shadow of Dick’s face as well. The other is still enough: enough to push a pointed look at Dick, enough to watch him swallow, enough to make him back down.

“How,” Bruce repeats, “does it feel?”

Dick’s expression pinches, but this time Bruce can see him working himself up and allows the silence. “I—I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally admits.

“I want you to be honest with me,” Bruce says. He releases Dick’s chin, flattening the hand onto his chest instead and lightly toying with a nipple where it nestles between two fingers. His other hand slides up Dick’s cock to apply stimulation at the head, where Dick responds most to it. “I want you to be honest with _yourself_.”

Dick’s chest shudders with the effort not to react—to his motions, his words, the stress of the entire endeavor, it’s not clear.

“It feels good,” Dick mutters.

Bruce can’t tell if it’s honest or said just for his sake, but it’s a start. “What feels good?”

The flash of annoyed incredulity reminds Bruce of every time Dick had to repeat a training exercise for the dozenth time when he thought he’d already done it enough. A problem of his later teen years: that arrogance shared by all teenagers, thinking they know more than the adults trying to protect them. Dick was a difficult teenager. He wouldn’t have been annoyed and incredulous when he was still a sweet child, just ever-excited to carry on. Bruce hallows the early years in his mind.

“You jerking me off,” Dick grits out.

“Hm.” Bruce tightens the arm around his chest, pressing deep into the pectoral muscle.

In consolation, growing up has at least made Dick progressively better at reading his reactions. Dick can now tell almost immediately when he’s erred, when Bruce expects better from him. Most of the time, he can correctly guess what _is_ expected from him too.

“You—you stroking my...cock,” Dick’s head drops, “feels good.”

Bruce smiles against his temple, loosening the crushing grip around his chest. “I’m glad.”

He shifts back and aside to lean on the counter, tugging Dick with him. His son can have a reprieve from the mirror, though Bruce still gets to watch them in profile. The way his hand and the prize within jut out from Dick’s body as he increases the pace is obscene, trashy porn on an expensive backdrop. Though the way Dick grits his teeth, chokes off his moans and pants, pulls it down again to something natural and luxurious. His own clothed erection is hidden by Dick’s back, though the boy can surely feel it digging in.

The change of angle as Bruce pushes his son towards completion has another motive. Bruce glances away to ensure he’s aimed correctly. A silent foot tugs his target closer. Dick takes no notice. His eyes remained half-lidded and dropped, once again trying to hide.

Dick jerks in pleasure, stifled under Bruce’s pinning hand, rubbing against his clothed cock in a way that threatens to drive him crazy. The motion and the way Dick bites his lip makes his impending finish clear. He tucks his face into Bruce’s neck when he starts to come, panting against his jaw. The half of his face still visible in the mirror, pink and sweating and distraught in its own pleasure, is stunning.

“Gorgeous,” Bruce murmurs, stroking him through it. “My gorgeous boy, coming for me.”

Dick whines into him, a shockingly high and vulnerable sound for the man. Bruce almost rubs himself off against his back right there, regardless of the clothing he still wears. “Good,” he whispers, laying a hand over Dick’s hair. “Good boy.”

With a last shudder, Dick slumps down.

Bruce pets his hair once more, then skates his hand down to his shoulder, over his throat for a moment, his chest again. The throb in his groin is unbearable. Bruce hastily tugs down his sweats with his clean hand, in contrast to how gently he releases Dick’s cock with the other. Slick with his boy’s come, Bruce takes himself in hand. As soon as he does, he knows how he wants to finish.

“Help me with one more thing, Dickie,” he murmurs, before Dick can get uncomfortable and stilted and tense again. He helps the boy down, turning him to his knees.

He pulls Dick’s hand onto his cock, wrapping his own around it to guide. Bruce strokes quick and firm. He no longer wants to drag it out, just to find his release. His other boys still await. Bruce is already going further than intended, but Dick looks too good nude and kneeling to pass up.

Bruce only catches a brief flicker of blue from his eyes. Otherwise Dick keeps his gaze down, like he’s afraid Bruce will ask him for more if he’s caught aware, force him to practice deep throating again. The way he tenses when Bruce grabs his hair is confirmation.

Needless anxiety. Bruce merely hold his head in place as the pleasure spikes, coming over his face.

Dick flinches, eyes squeezing shut. Bruce pilots him through long strokes on his cock until he’s spent. He relaxes against the counter, appraising his masterpiece. White stripes paint across Dick’s cheek, mouth, and chin. An image he’ll treasure, finally achieved with each of his boys.

Bruce pats his head gently, watching Dick’s eyes carefully peel open like he’s just realized they weren’t hit.

He waits for a few blinks of awareness. When he’s sure Dick will notice, Bruce lets his eyes drift past and then adopts a grimace. Dick twists to follow his gaze. His expression falls when he spots the pile of clothes Bruce tugged off him earlier, now stained with his release.

Dick glances back at him. It lasts just a fraction of a second, an instant—but in that moment, Bruce knows he’s won. Dick’s expression isn’t annoyed or angry, isn’t shrewdly suspicious as he connects motive to Bruce turning them just before Dick got off. It’s worried. Worried, with a tinge of guilt—waiting to see if Bruce will be angry at _him_ for this. Solely focused on mitigating the consequences if he is.

Bruce sighs. “I suppose you’ll have to clean up, then.”

And with no rebuke falling on him, Dick relaxes. Subtly, covertly, trying not to show it. But Bruce knows his boys well. They don’t surprise him, and they can’t hide from him.

“We shouldn’t be seen leaving here together,” Bruce adds. A convenient buffer of time, now extended for his own purposes. “Can you manage yourself?”

Dick nods without hesitation, probably relieved to be free of him. Bruce is content to let that particular struggle wear down gradually. “Ye—Yeah,” Dick says.

Bruce strokes his hair affectionately and ducks down for a kiss on the forehead, before slipping out. His last glimpse in the room is of Dick still kneeling, still covered in his come.

-

Satisfaction lingers in his body, but Bruce hastens to find his other boys. Voices from his bedroom confirm the destination. He lingers outside a moment. Standing right beside the door, Bruce can discern the words clearly.

“Maybe you should go look for him,” Tim is saying. The snideness to his words is conversely reassuring. He still sounds exhausted, but not as broken as Bruce feared.

Bruce doesn’t hear any impact, but Tim yelps out an, “Ow!”

“Maybe _you_ should be interesting enough to keep him around,” Jason snaps.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a stupid porn brain like y—” Tim’s voice abruptly muffles, like it’s been covered. That’s a tantalizing thought. Bruce mentally sorts through his toys. He’s certain he has a few gags in there.

“Stop being _pathetic_.” Jason’s voice lowers to a hiss, making Bruce lean against the door to hear. “You’re supposed to make this _fun_ for him. Be a better fucking lure.”

His anger is loud and obvious as ever, yet Bruce is certain if he opened the door he would see that secret hint of anxiety, the desperation. It’s Jason to the core: always needing to offer something above and beyond, never just counting on himself to be liked. In hindsight, it seems a forgone conclusion that Jason would be the one to start all this. Not Bruce, who had promised himself to never touch a child; Jason, who came onto him anyway.

Dick’s painted face is still vivid in his mind and Bruce is not ready to get hard again, but he pushes open the door to see what Jason has prepared for him this time.

Jason looks up, immediately in his performance of nonchalance. “What, did you get lost?”

Bruce silently closes the door behind him.

Tim can’t look up. Jason has a hand on the back of his head, crushing his face into the bedspread. His hands are bound together in front of him and pulled down to attach to his ankles, keeping him in a little ball on his knees. Bruce finds himself comparing each aspect: Tim’s arousingly small stature versus Dick’s perfect sculpting. Jason’s brash excuse for rough treatment versus Dick’s soft uncertainty. He could add a mirror to this trio without issue, but adding restraints to his sex with Dick would be a compelling challenge.

“Timmy here got off without you,” Jason says, toying with the base of the vibrator where it protrudes from Tim’s ass.

“Is that so.” Bruce’s cock makes a valiant effort to rise again at the sight of Tim squeezing tight around it. With all the comparisons, Bruce must of course include the fact that his youngest is currently the only one he can _fuck_ —though he intends to fix that matter shortly.

“Is he _allowed_ to do that?” Jason presses. His eyebrows lift pointedly.

Annoyance, Bruce realizes, that he hasn’t caught onto Jason’s obvious hints. He circles towards the bed, threads fingers through Tim’s hair at the same moment Jason releases it. “Is that true, Tim?”

Tim’s face emerges from the duvet, cheeks red. Bruce lowers to a crouch, leaning his elbows on the bed so they’re at level. Tim’s eyes dart over. With Bruce around, his voice is much softer than with Jason: “You never said—”

“Did you come without permission?” Bruce asks.

Tim stares at him for a minute. Bruce can see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to catch up to the sudden enforcement of a rule that was never established in the first place. He glances down towards Jason, back to Bruce.

“ _He_ turned it back on,” Tim says.

“And you couldn’t resist coming for your brother,” Bruce finishes. Something about the explicit taboo in the word makes his blood race. Jason is watching, cataloging as always; Bruce may as well give him something to note. By the way Tim shudders, he likes it too—or hates it; the difference is unimportant.

Bruce slides his hand along the length of Tim’s back, smooth and overheated, down to his ass. His palm fits nicely over the nearest globe.

With Tim, he can be _rough_ too. Jason accepts a certain amount of manhandling, but only with an excuse. Dick will acclimate quickly. But Tim is already there, suffering injury and prepared to cover it up. Still, Bruce prefers not to be the one held accountable when Jason is right here to speak it for him. All it takes is a glance up.

“What do you think?” Jason asks, suggestively indicating Bruce’s hand.

Bruce has a hungry smirk for his eyes, and a neutral tone for Tim’s ears. “Hm?”

Jason lightly thwacks the other side of Tim’s rear with his hand. “I mean, do you have a tool you’re dying to use for this, or do you prefer your hands?”

What good and loyal sons he has. Jason, catering to his whims however dark. Tim, accepting whatever is given and still relying on Bruce. Dick, even if he must be kept separate, still downstairs and obedient and marked. All of them, _his_. As close to perfect as possible.

Jason watches him intently, one hand rubbing Tim’s flank almost absently.

Bruce brings his hand down hard.

**Author's Note:**

> Next time: huh, you know, it _has_ been a while since we checked in with Jason...


End file.
